Collection 1997 - End Of The Drive (v5.0) by Louis L’Amour Page A

soon erase.
    I’d left no love in Texas, but a man at twenty-four is as much a man as he will be, and a girl was what I wanted. A girl to rear strong sons on the high plains of Texas, a girl to ride beside me in the summer twilight, to share the moon with me, and the high stars over the caprock country.
    For I had found a ranch, filed my claims, and put my brand on steers, and this drive was my last for another man, the last at a foreman’s wages. When I rode my horse up to the rail that day, I saw the girl I dreamed about…the girl I wanted.
    She stood on the walk outside the store and she lifted a hand to shade her eyes, her hair blowing light in the wind, and her figure was long and slim and the sun caught red lights in her hair. Her eyes caught mine as I rode tall in the leather, the first man to come up the street.
    She looked grave and straight and honestly at me, and it seemed no other girl had ever looked so far into my heart. At twenty-four the smile of a woman is a glory to the blood and a spark to the spirit, and carries a richer wine than any sold over a bar in any frontier saloon.
    I’d had no shave for days, and the dust of the trail lay on my clothes, and sour I was with the need of bathing and washing. When I swung from my saddle, a tall, lonely man in a dusty black hat with spurs to my heels, she stood where I had seen her and turned slowly away and walked into the store.

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    W E WENT TO the bar and I had a drink, but the thing was turning over within me and thinking of the girl left no rest for me. She was all I could think about and all I could talk about that afternoon.
    So when I turned from the bar Red Mike put a hand to my sleeve. “It’s trouble you’re headed for, Tom Gavagan,” he said. “It’s been months since you’ve seen a girl. She’s a bonny lass, but you know the rule here. No trail hand can walk north of the street, nor bother any of the citizens.”
    â€œI’m not one to be breakin’ the law, Mike, but it is a poor man who will stop shy of his destiny.”
    â€œThis is John Blake’s town,” he said.
    The name had a sound of its own, for John Blake was known wherever the trails ran; wherever they came from and where they ended. He was a hard man accustomed to dealing with hard men, and when he spoke his voice was law. He was a square, powerful man, with a name for fair dealing, but a man who backed his words with a gun.
    â€œIt is a time for courting,” I said, “although I want trouble with no man. And least of all John Blake.”
    When I turned to the door I heard Red Mike behind me. “No more drinking this day,” he said. “We’ve a man to stand behind.”

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    W HEN THE DOOR creaked on its spring a man looked around from his buying, and the keeper of the store looked up, but the girl stood straight and tall where she was, and did not turn. For she knew the sound of my heels on the board floor, and the jingle of my Spanish spurs.
    â€œI am selling the herd this night,” I said, when I came to stand beside her, “and I shall be riding south with the morning sun. I hope not to ride alone.”
    She looked at me with straight, measuring eyes. “You are a forward man, Tom Gavagan. You do not know me.”
    â€œI know you,” I said, “and know what my heart tells me, and I know that if you do not ride with me when I return to Texas, I shall ride with sorrow.”
    â€œI saw you when you rode into town last year,” she said, “but you did not see me.”
    â€œHad I seen you I could not have ridden away. I am a poor hand for courting, knowing little but horses, cattle, and grass, and I have learned nothing that I can say to a girl. I only know that when I saw you there upon the walk it seemed my life would begin and end with you, and there would be no happiness until you rode beside me.”
    â€œYou are doing well enough with your talk, Tom